


but platonically though

by thescyfychannel



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aphrodisiacs (mention), Dubious Morality, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fucking Machines, Harems, Light Bondage, M/M, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Size Difference, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-05 03:56:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15855735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: You are incredibly good at several things: being pissed, lying to yourself, and being fucked within an inch of your life.





	but platonically though

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OhGeesE](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhGeesE/gifts).



> "Ok so I have a size difference kink and either of these two ancestors with any other smaller male beta or alpha troll would be nice."

The toy inside you shifts, and you barely manage to hold in your moan.

It's another piece of evidence for the theory you've held to be true your entire life: Amporas are  _hatched_  assholes. It's as much a part of their genetic code as the stupid streak that most of them choose to dye away.

Ampora Mk., uh, One, you suppose—he  _is_  the oldest version currently around—smirks, at the sight of you squirming on the godsdamned, thrice-cursed, absolutely  _evil_  toy shoved up your nook. You hate him. You despise him. You completely and utterly and  _platonically_  loathe him.

And then the bastard hits the on switch and your body formally declares that he's not so bad after all.

 

* * *

 

It's a common practice, in the Orphaner Dualscar's harem: he is a full grown seadweller, with all the rights and privileges that entails, and  _one_  of those things happens to be a bulge too fucking big for any  _normal_  troll to easily take. Most trolls don't bother much with shit like lube (unless it did something interesting), beyond getting someone sufficiently turned on that their nook was leaking slurry. Most trolls weren't sporting equipment  _that fucking huge_.

Of course, the chumfucking bulgedrip that  _was_  the Orphaner Dualscar wasn't going to be assed to bother with lube either. Oh, no, his high and mighty violetness  _much_  preferred to let all of you work each other up for his pleasure, or, in the cases of his favorite toys— _lucky fucking you_ —handle it himself.

 

The toy inside you vibrates hard, and you'd give in if you weren't such a stubborn fuck. From the expression the Orphaner's wearing, you can  _tell_  that he knows you're fighting it, and worse, you can tell that the thought amuses him. This can mean any one of two things. Either, A) He has something way fucking worse in mind, or B) He's about to get hands on, and you are well and thoroughly fucked.

You can  _remember_  all of one time that he fucked you when you weren't ready. Everything was agonizingly, painfully slow, but his enormous hand around your bulge had kept you so aroused that it almost hurt. When he'd  _finally_  seated himself fully inside you, you'd spilled. When he started moving, you  _kept_  spilling, until you passed out.

Not that you were  _ever_  going to admit this, but. Fucking  _hell_  had it been worth it.

 

You're still lost in thought when oversized, overly  _cold_ , hands land on your hips. He gives you enough time to realize he's touching you, to give a startled chirp—then he shoves you the rest of the way down onto the toy. In retrospect, this is not quite as bad as the hundreds of other things he could have done.

In the actual moment, you  _scream_.

 

* * *

 

Another thing you've learned: Dualscar enjoys seeing as much of your mutant hue as possible, at every opportunity. It means sparring practice is a thing, which you're alright with. It also means multiple orgasms is a thing. You're. Not quite sure where you stand on that.

Right now your voice isn't working, jagged, animalistic sounds spilling out of you, as he keeps you pinned down on the toy, one-handed. The other is fiddling with the controls. You don't like that, but it's not like you can  _complain_. It's not like your body  _wants_  you to complain, judging by the way your bulge and nook are going into overdrive. Oh, fuck.

When you shoot him an accusatory look, he laughs. "Not tonight, firebrand," he says, and something painted like relief, but painfully close to disappointment, floods you. His expression grows more smug, and you decide that you fucking  _hate_ how obvious you are. "I'll see about it next evenin'." Fuck him.

Ah. Right. He's planning on that.

Inside you, the toy jumps to its  _special_  settings. It feels like a rigid thing, inside you, for all that it's made out of flexible, rubbery material, but this setting makes it thrash like a bulge, opening you up properly for Dualscar. You're not sure how you're still upright, given that he'd tied your arms behind your back, but hey, not bad.

This particular toy is but a mere pawn, a simple attachment to a much larger monstrosity. The Orphaner has you straddling the width of one of his favorite machines, covered over with softness on the sides—save for the mechanism that sticks out of the hole in the top. The mechanism that attaches to whatever fresh hell is in store for you that night. The mechanism that he  _now_  decides to activate, which mimics the thrusting of none other than the chief bulgegatherer himself.

 _Fuck_ , you hate how good that feels.  _Platonically_.

 

* * *

 

Your second orgasm is as thorough as the first. When you come down from the high, you're still bound, and Dualscar's decided to strap your legs down to the machine. You're pretty fucking sure you know what you're in for now, and you twist, trying to test the limits of both your restraints and his patience.

A broad hand tangles into your hair, and you bite down on a needy whimper. "Good lad," he says, as if you'd let it spill out of you anyway. Fuck. Maybe you did?

Before you can try to sort  _that_  bullshit out, he's at the controls once more. Toy number one slows to a halt, then ceases its thrashing. You don't have time to be relieved: he lets it keep vibrating, as he pulls it slowly out of you, and the mere motion of it brings you dangerously close to a high you can't afford—not with toy number two jockeying for position, as soon as it's out.

This one is  _much_  bigger, much fucking bigger, almost the same size as the Orphaner himself. Most nights, you're not sure how you manage to take it, but sometimes, you end up fucking  _aching_  for it. You haven't yet decided what sort of night this is, which leaves you a little breathless when he flips the switch to have it  _slowly_  work its way into you.

 

Of course the Orphaner Asshole would choose this moment to drop down into the throne-like seat directly in front of you. Of course he'd decide that he wants to watch you writhe and squirm as you're slowly split apart on that goddamn piece of rubber death he calls a  _pail toy_. 

From this vantage point, you can watch yourself fill up, the stocky muscle of your body, your stomach, your thighs, stretched out for his pleasure—you're full, you're so fucking full, and you  _know_  there's more to come.

The toy does not stop when you feel full. It keeps pressing in, as it always does, slowly laying siege to the entirety of your nook; opening you up, as it always does, to fit more than you were sure you could. You're barely aware—barely  _conscious,_ even—by the time it's settled itself completely inside of you.

 

You are  _very_  conscious of it when he jacks the speed all the way up, though.

 

* * *

 

Coming down from your third high takes much longer. By the time you manage it, you're already in Dualscar's lap, the entire lower half of your body painted imperial crimson. Dualscar tips your chin up, checking to see if you're any more alert, and you try taking a snap at him.

This time, he lets you catch him, and your eyes go wide. Before you can pull away, though, he uses the fingers you'd gotten—barely nicked, dammit, judging by the blood flow—to spread your mouth open. You whimper, around his fingers, your arms still stretched back behind you.

Another amused noise. "You didn't ever think through what you'd do if you actually took a chunk out a me, did you?"

You can't respond, but you wouldn't have dignified that with a response anyway.  Judging by the way he tugs you further into his lap, he knows that much.

 

His bulge curls against your much-abused nook, and you shudder. The cool is a balm over raw nerves, but the implied threat is one you could do without. You're set to trembling again, when he lifts you up with one huge hand.

And his bulge shoves into you with all of the grace the machine had not, with none of the hesitation it exhibited.

Your scream is completely soundless; your world goes white.

 

* * *

 

You come to and he's still inside you, still fucking you, both of his hands on your hips. They nearly encircle your whole body, and you're not sure—you're not sure you  _want_  to be sure of it—how he got you flipped around. All you know is that your cheek is flush against the cool floor, that he's kneeling behind you, curved over you, as he fucks into you, almost painfully hard. A sob rips out of you, and it's met with a pleased purr, so deep it's nearly a growl. "What's your count, then?"

"Fff, four," you force out. Somehow. You're never sure how, but you have  _learned_  not to ignore that kind of question.

Behind you, he makes a contemplative sort of "Hmm." You'd ask questions, but you don't really have the energy for anything but staying conscious and  _taking_  it. He's got you fucked full, filled tight, your body little more than an overdecorated bulgesheath for his pleasure. You hate that you're kinda into it. You hate that he knows it. Platonically.  _Very_  platonically.

One hand cups the back of your head, that almost-comforting threat, and you  _finally_ notice that you've been rutting back against him like a touch-starved bucket slut. Fucking  _hell_.

He hitches your hips up higher, though, and you suddenly can't move—and suddenly can't help but feel every drag of every curve of his bulge, feel even more full, feel him buried even deeper. You're going to die, you're pretty fucking sure of  _that_.

 

Instead of being merciful and  _letting_  you, his stupidly large hand tilts your head aside, his teeth sink into your shoulder, and you tip over the edge again.

Five.


End file.
